And All She Did Was Love Me
by Tekno Danish
Summary: what if knives had fallen to a somewhat different fate, after the series? originally, i hadn't intended for this to be a VxM, but the great fanfiction spirits prodded me into it. read and review, i beg you.


** my second attempt at a Trigun fic, but my first attempt at a first-person fic. And before you get out your pitchforks and torches to hunt me down because the fic turned out bad, please review. Constructive criticism always appreciated. And thanks to those who reviewed mah last fic. ^^ helped me loads with this one. ** 

****

Pain

The more I keep telling myself it's all my fault, the more I will believe it. I shouldn't tell myself things like that. I shouldn't. 

But I do. That's all I've been telling myself. And I believe it more than anything right now. 

Everything is my fault. If it weren't for me, he wouldn't be… he'd still… 

He's gone because of me. 

And now there's that horribly empty part in me. Of course, there are still the parts of me with me in there, but there's that huge part, almost right in the center, that's gone now. It's almost as if someone took one of my lungs, but left the other. I can't breathe properly. 

And it's all my fault. I pulled the trigger. He's dead. I killed him. 

I killed my own twin. 

My eyes want to cry, my heart wants to cry, but I'm almost out of tears. I feel sick, instead, as I think of her. I'm so dizzy, despite the fact that I'm sitting with my head on my knees. She'd be so disappointed in me. 

I honestly tried to save him, Rem. I thought I'd finally understood. But I've only done wrong. I've done wrong again, Rem. Wherever you are now—Heaven, maybe—are you looking upon me with that hurt look on your face? I can almost see you shaking your head at me now, frowning sadly. You're so disappointed in me. Rem. 

Rem… 

I don't know what to do now. What else can I do? I spent my lifetime with him, against him, searching for him. Now he's gone forever, and I don't know what to do. I'm confused as hell. I know it shouldn't be this confusing, but it is. I know I shouldn't be scared, but I am. I know I shouldn't be telling myself it's my fault, but I do. 

I keep telling myself that, and I believe it more and more every day. 

I am truly a killer. 

There's a timid knock on the door. I don't need to speculate on who it might be. She walks in quietly, despite the fact that I have not yet called or invited her in. I don't look up at her as she takes a step toward the bed I'm sitting on, but I can tell that she's wearing slippers, and trying to be as quiet as possible. Maybe she thinks I'm asleep. So far, I haven't made a noise today. That probably made her curious. 

Or concerned. 

She was once so fiery, so strict. I used to be afraid of her, sometimes. I had never imagined that someone such as her could be so gentle, so caring. Lately, she's been acting almost like a little wife, caring for me and the house and nothing else. Her partner has remained secluded, and I have yet to see the Big Girl this week. Perhaps it's wise of the Big Girl to stay away from me. She's probably afraid. People drop like flies around me, and I don't blame her for not wanting to die. 

But _she_ does nothing but care for me. The small girl, Meryl. Her name sounds odd in my mind, having never been spoken on my tongue. I owe her so much, but I won't as much as say her name. And I don't even know why. She does nothing but care for me. 

Nothing but love me. 

Her small hand falls on my shoulder, and she shakes me gently, enough to wake a sleeping person, but not enough to startle an awake person. A mumble passes through my lips—I don't really know what I said, but it's enough to let her know I acknowledge her presence. I can almost feel her forced smile without looking at her. That mumble has to be the best reaction from me she's had in days. I'm glad I've lifted her spirits, slightly. 

Timidly, she speaks to me. It's the first time in two days that she's spoken to me. I suspect that she's as afraid of me now as her partner is, but wouldn't dare ask her. No matter how much love and care she projects at me, she can't hide that fear from me. 

"I… I've made some soup, if you'd like some," she offers with a smile, one that I can feel. Even as she offers me a meal, she knows that I'll refuse. I haven't eaten in nearly a week. Killers like me only deserve water, and even that is considered a luxury in my eyes. Killers like me deserve nothing. Not soup, or bread. Not water. 

Not love. 

I bring my eyes to meet hers, a smoky blue haze; I'm surprised how openly she lets her feelings for me float in those eyes. She pretends to hide it, pretends that she doesn't care for me, pretends that I'd never be able to guess unless she told me. But I know. Without words, she's told me how she feels. In her actions, with that look in her eyes, she's told me everything. Even now, she's saying she loves me, she wants to take care of me. 

I don't want to look in those eyes. 

She takes my adamant silence as my response to her question, and frowns with disappointment. She won't say it, but she made that soup especially for me. So I'd be happy. 

But how can I ever be happy again? I can't. Not with the blood of my twin still fresh on my hands. The same blood as mine. 

It's almost as if she's been reading my thoughts, for a sad look appears in her hazy eyes, a frown crinkling her mouth. It's only then that the deep, dark lines of telltale weariness are noticeable under her eyes. She's tired. She's so tired of everything, of dealing with me, of a partner consumed by her work, of the death of someone she never knew, of a house that she, alone, must maintain. She's tired of the loneliness I know she feels, and she wants to talk to me. She wants me to be normal again, to forget everything. 

I'm sitting on the bed he died in, have been since he left me. I know I can never forget anything, however much her eyes plead with me. 

Timid words hover over her lips, parted slightly as she thinks of the right thing to say. She's afraid she'll hurt me if she says the wrong thing. It's too late, though. She needn't worry. I'm hurting all over, and I don't think anything she says will make things different inside me. However, she's determined to say whatever's on her mind. I don't want to stop her, so I wait in silence. 

"It's…" she fumbles with her words. Her voice is gentle, but scared. Always scared. I don't look to her as she attempts to speak. If she looks in my eyes and sees something she didn't want to see, she might not speak. And she'd run away. 

She tries her voice again, and finds that it works. She appears a bit more confidant in her words. Her shoulders aren't slouched anymore. 

"It's…" the same word she found herself stuck on before quickly passes through her lips, giving root to other words. I wait. 

"It's not your fault." 

And in those simple words, I feel a wall shatter around me. How terribly wrong she is. How _wrong_! I find myself angry with her, suddenly. In those small words she struggled with, she has tried to deny me my strongest belief. No, it's all my fault. It _is_ my fault! She's wrong, she's wrong… 

And I tell her so. 

"You're wrong!" My voice is weak from not being used in a long time, but my words come out strong. They hit her. Hard. She stumbles backward, frightened by my outburst and crushed by my words. She had only been trying to comfort me, but at this moment, I don't care. I never asked her to care for me. I never asked her to love me. I've hit a barrier in that woman with only my two words, the first words to her in the longest time, and her lip trembles unintentionally. I've hurt her. 

And I don't care. 

"You're wrong," I say again, my voice coming out quieter this time, but just as harshly. "Everything is my fault. If I hadn't brought him here… if I hadn't tried to save him, he wouldn't have died. He wouldn't be dead right now! He'd still be alive!" 

My anger is at a peak, and I find myself screaming nonsense at her. She's scared out of her wits, but she won't move an inch. I won't meet her eyes. Nonsense turns into gibberish, and I start repeating myself over and over. All my fault, all my fault. All my fault. Her eyes shut tightly, painfully, as if this single action might block out all of my ranting. If she can't see me, I'm not there. But my words are beating her, left and right. Leaving deep gashes. 

And all she's done is love me. 

Her fists clench at her side, as if she'd like to punch me. She can't take it anymore. She's hurting like crazy on the inside, and it's starting to come out. Her face is tight with an inexplicable amount of painful emotions, almost all of which are because of me. And the tears are beginning to stream from her tightly closed eyes. She couldn't keep them in anymore, because I'm sitting here, screaming at her, sticking a knife straight into her gentle, loving heart. 

"Stop it!" she finally explodes, and I do just that. Immediately. Again she chokes out the words, biting on them painfully. Her heart is on the floor, stomped and battered, her tears falling on it as it gives a last shuddering thump. I've hurt her so much; she can barely stand it. She wobbles in place, as if I've physically beaten her. Perhaps I have. 

I can't believe what I've just done. 

"Don't say those things…" her cracked voice pleads desperately with me. My anger quickly fades, replaced by a terrible feeling of shame. How could I have hurt someone who loves me so? She's sobbing now, trying hard to regain her composure but failing miserably. I know all she wants to do right now is to fall into the arms of someone she loves and cry her eyes out, while they give words of comfort. She wants me to be this one, to hold her, to comfort her. But how can I be that when I am the one who brings her such misery? 

It would be like running to the arms of a hungry monster, when all it wants to do is eat you. And so that's all I am, I know. A monster, bloodthirsty and vicious. I do nothing but hurt. 

"Why shouldn't I say those things…?" I ask the small woman, almost scornfully. I hate myself for that. Her eyes settle on me, misty and glistening still with tears. But her expression is gentle again, and I almost look away. However, she's managed to capture me again. Our eyes are locked. 

"Because they're not true." 

Wham. I've been hit in the head with a brick. She says that so confidently, it's almost as if there's nothing I can say against it. Her voice is stern, just as her eyes are. Tears still continue to stream down her already wet cheeks, but her voice is steady now. How can she say that? Of course what I said is true. It's my fault. It's true. 

It's true… Why do I want it to be true? It hurts. 

She takes a decisive step forward, her legs steady. The only evidence of the fright that still inflicts her is how the tears pour down her cheeks, and how her hands shake, slightly, as she clenches them tightly. And there's the look in her eyes. I shut my eyelids tightly, not wanting to stare back into those eyes anymore. They hurt so much, but still she cares for me. I've caused her so much pain, and she still wants to love me. 

She's so foolish. 

"You know it's not your fault," she tells me as soothingly as she can manage, and I rest my head on my knees, which are pulled up to my chest. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear her tell me this. 

The truth is painful, and I don't want to hear it. 

"You know it's not anyone's fault," she continues, now determined. Her voice is closer than it had been before, and I know she's less than an arm's length away from me. "It was no one's fault but his own." 

No, it's mine. 

"He stayed in that bed, and let himself waste away." 

No, I killed him. 

"He didn't want the life you had promised him." 

I honestly tried to save him. 

"He wanted nothing but death." 

I've done wrong. 

"He realized he had done wrong, and let himself waste away." 

There had to be another way to save him. 

"He wouldn't let us do anything for him. Nothing." 

I don't know anymore. 

"He killed _himself_." 

Please stop. 

"It's not your fault." 

Please. 

"Nothing is your fault--" 

"_Please stop!"_ I sob dryly, and my lack of harshness surprises me. I'm not angry. I just want to stop hurting. "Please…" I beg her, tears brimming at my eyes. "I don't want you to be with me… Please go." 

But she only takes a step closer to me. Please, go. I don't want to hurt you. _I_ don't want to hurt. 

Another deliberate move is made by her, and only a few inches keeps us apart. Please, just go. You'll only be hurt more if you don't go. Stop caring for me. Stop loving me. 

Please. 

The gap is closed between us, abruptly. She's shaking, but her arms manage to slip around my shoulders, and she pulls me close as she sits on the bed beside me. 

I finally give in, and allow the tears to flow. 

I lay my head between her shoulder and her neck, and my tears immediately stain the neck of her white blouse. Her hands, still shaking, slightly, rest at the back of my neck, tangled in my hair, and on my face. She's so warm. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Without realizing it, I had been saying these words over and over again. Maybe to myself, maybe to her. I'm not sure, but it makes the tears come easier. She nods as tears flow from her own eyes, mixing with my tears as she presses her moist cheek against mine. 

"So am I…" she murmurs, her grip tightening ever so slightly, ever so protectively. She does nothing but love me. 

And only in her arms, nothing is my fault anymore. 

** No, put down that pitchfork. Please review before you slaughter me. ::begs:: **


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